


The Ghost of Stalag 13

by DixieDale



Category: Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 17:20:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17005887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Just what WAS the real story behind Sergeant James Kinchloe being replaced by Sergeant Richard Baker during Season Six?  Perhaps, just maybe, it went something like this.





	The Ghost of Stalag 13

January 1945:  
Hochstetter KNEW Colonel Hogan, Senior Prisoner of War, Stalag 13, was really Papa Bear, leading thorn in Hochstetter's side. Proving it, well, that was a different matter, and for some unknown, inexplicable reason, General Burkhalter insisted on proof, instead of just letting Hochstetter shoot the bastard like he wanted.

Now, after many unsuccessful attempts at turning up that proof, the Gestapo major turned to a new tactic - getting one of the men from Hogan's barracks to talk, confess everything, giving Hochstetter what he needed to force General Burkhalter's hand. The problem was, that wasn't exactly a NEW tactic; he'd tried it before, but somehow, each time, Hogan somehow managed to wriggle his way loose, him AND his man. Hochstetter was sure the only way this was going to work was to get one of the men in his hands, but WITHOUT Hogan knowing about it in time to take action, without Hogan knowing it was Hochstetter behind the whole plan until it was too late. That way, he could force the proof out of the man before Hogan became any the wiser.

So he arranged for a regular army unit to secretly snatch whichever came to view first. Well, not the Englander, Newland, Newpoint, New . . .whatever the hell his name was! That one seemed to have more than his share of sheer spit-in-your-eye stubbornness. They'd tried with HIM before; oh, not Hochstetter, but one or two others from the Gestapo, and it was their considered opinion that the infuriating man would swallow his own tongue before giving up anything other than name, rank and serial number. No, one of the others, perhaps the black man who'd dared think to stand up to a German in the boxing ring. Yes, he would be ideal. Hochstetter would enjoy breaking him, for several reasons. Soon, he would have whatever he needed to destroy Papa Bear and those who followed him!

 

The truck arrived without warning, the several armed German soldiers unloading in a stream and seeming to melt into the air, which was rather a feat considering just how big some of those soldiers were. There was a marked difference between them and the guards at the camp, a hardness, a sense of urgency and purpose that you rarely saw around Stalag 13, unless Hochstetter was making one of his visits and the guards decided to put on a show to impress him. Or at least, to keep out of his gunsights. 

Surprisingly, the prisoners weren't confined to the Barracks, which often happened when unannounced visitors arrived, and the Command Team had split up to try and find out whatever they could about the visit, after listening in at the coffee pot while the officer in charge 'visited' with a highly apprehensive Kommandant Klink didn't bring anything pertinent to light. Hogan had brushed his hair into its usual perfection, put on his cap and adjusted it to the exact angle he preferred, tugged his jacket into place and walked over to join Klink and his visitor, to see what he could discover in person.

The officer, along with the truck, left less than an hour later, and it was only after it rumbled out of the gates did they discover they were missing a prisoner. Missing a member of the Command Team. Missing one Sergeant James Kinchloe. 

"But Hogan, I knew NOTHING about this, I assure you! And I find it difficult to believe they would make off with one of my prisoners! Why, that would be totally against protocol! They would never dare to do that! I am the Iron Eagle, the Kommandant of the toughest prisoner of war camp in all of Germany! Why . . ."

"Herr Kommandant, I beg to report, the truck, the soldiers, they seem to have taken the American sergeant with them, Sergeant Kinchloe," Corporal Langenscheidt was stuttering from the open doorway. "The guard at the gate tried to ask why, but he was told to mind his own business. He ordered them to wait while he got proper authorization, but by the time he came to get me, to report the irregularity, they were gone!" 

 

Back in the Barracks, at the other end of that ever-so-useful coffee pot, the three remaining members of the Command Team were tightlipped with anger and worry. There was a time when they would have left it to Colonel Hogan to fix things, come up with a plan, but that wasn't the case so much anymore. More and more they were finding it necessary to take action on their own, to protect each other, to protect the others in the camp, from those within as well as from those without.

"Carter, see if you can round up Rene and 'is merry band of pirates, eh? We gotta get Kinch outta their 'ands before 'e runs into something downright nasty."

Newkirk had gone through a recent bout of 'nasty', involving a German Colonel and his adjutant, and still woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. His bruises had started to fade; the other souvenirs were slower to heal, and he'd added to the tally of scars on his body and face. Well, the newest weren't scars, not yet, but Scotty Wilson had been open with him - they would be.

{"Probably lucky me mum is long gone; she'd never recognize me,"} he'd thought, but then shrugged. His mum had been gone long before he even hit his teens; even without these newest scars, he doubted she'd ever have recognized him. A tiny bit of comfort came, unbidden and unexpected, {"well, there's others who would, no matter w'at my face looks like by the time this is all over,"} thinking of the very few, less than a handful, he had back home who seemed to recognize him more by what they saw below the surface than by what showed outwardly. He'd never understood that, perhaps never fully appreciated that before.

 

It was a tense time, them waiting to hear from Rene and the Underground. Klink had had the unfortunate duty to tell Hogan the bad news. "I am very sorry, Colonel Hogan. It appears the truck deposited your sergeant with a member of the Gestapo outside Hammelburg, with instructions to take him on to Dusseldorf." Hogan raged and ranted, and finally convinced Klink to get on the phone to General Burkhalter. 

"What do you mean they TOOK one of your prisoners, Klink? What are you running there, a luft stalag or a vegetable stand? Those prisoners are your responsibility! You cannot just let someone waltz away with one of them??! What were you doing while all of this was going on? Sleeping? Having a shot of schnapps? Polishing your bald spot??" 

After hearing the whole story, General Burkhalter slammed down the phone and poured HIMSELF a glass of schnapps. Then, he made a few telephone calls of his own. It took some more ranting and raging on HIS part to get the answers, and when he hung up the phone from an infuriated Major Hochstetter, he sat silently contemplating a blank spot on the wall.

No, no matter what the Gestapo Major had been screaming in his ear, he did NOT believe Hogan had arranged for the death of one of his own men, even in order to prevent his interrogation by the Gestapo. Well, of course not; Hogan had always seemed like a responsible officer, looking out for the welfare of those in his charge. Responsible military officers did not kill their own men for such a reason. The Gestapo? Well, he put nothing past them.

Burkhalter would have been inclined to believe Hochstetter actually still had the man in custody but didn't want to admit it, if not for the sheer hysterical rage in the man's voice over the telephone. {"One of these days he is going to burst an blood vessel in his brain,"} Burkhalter thought. {"Pity it didn't happen just now. It would probably save me a great deal of trouble down the road."}

He started to pick up the telephone to inform Klink that his missing prisoner had been located, but unfortunately was dead, but stopped, his hand not two inches from the receiver. No, this was something he needed to do in person, owed it to Hogan, if not to Klink.

He did reach for the phone then, but only to call for his driver. He hadn't planned on a trip to Stalag 13 anytime soon; it always gave him a blinding headache afterwards, but he knew his duty. 

He got into the staff car. "Stalag 13, by way of the Dusseldorf Bypass," he ordered. "Yes, Karl, I am aware it is out of the way, but that is the way I need to travel. Please do not argue; I am in no mood for it."

 

"Burkhalter at the front gate, mon colonel," LeBeau reported, sticking his head in the door of Hogan's quarters. "Looks like he's headed for Klink's office."

"Alright, fire up the coffee pot. Let's see what's going on." The others scrambled to gather round. They hadn't heard from the Underground about Kinch; maybe this involved him in some way.

Whatever they had expected to hear, it wasn't what Burkhalter now gravely told a disbelieving Kommandant Klink. 

"Dead? But, but, but, HOW?" 

"I have only the sketchiest of details, Klink. It appears the soldiers from the truck turned your prisoner over to a small contingent of Gestapo, who were to take him for interrogation by Major Hochstetter. Their jeep became the unfortunate victim of a section of road that had been mined, presumable by the Underground."

"But, was he identified? Is it certain? I must know before I tell Hogan. He is going to be furious!"

Burkhalter sat back, listened with decreasing patience as Klink fussed and whimpered and fretted, til finally he sighed, "Klink, shut up."

"Yes, Herr General, I will shut up," Klink immediately said, ducking his head in acknowledgement of the order.

"There was nothing left, just perhaps scraps of the jeep, maybe some scraps of fabric. The bomb seems to have been made of some high-temperature accelerant; there simply . . . ". He paused, not even wanting to imagine the scene he'd viewed on his way here. "There was simply nothing left to identify, of your prisoner, of the men escorting him to Major Hochstetter."

Klink had turned a decidedly green shade of pale. His voice was at a whisper now, "yes, Herr General. I understand. You will . . . You will wish to tell Colonel Hogan, yes," he asked with somewhat of a futile hope in his voice.

Burkhalter started to deny that, then paused and heaved a deep sigh. "Yes, Klink. I will tell Hogan. Please have him summoned at once."

 

The gloom in Hogan's face when he returned from that meeting was quite real, perhaps one of the more 'real' expressions they'd seen recently. Somehow, the suppressed excitement, even joy in his men's faces wasn't what he'd expected. 

"Guys?"

And Carter burst out, unable to hold it in any longer. "We just got the call from Rene! They have him! He's not in the greatest condition, they said, but he's alive, boy, I mean, Colonel!"

 

Rene brought Kinch back in through the emergency tunnel four days later, citing the need for medical care as the reason for the delay, along with, of course, the increased Gestapo activity as a frustrated Major Hochstetter made a general nuisance of himself. Since that medical care was already being given by the doctor who made his services available to the Underground unit, that seemed best, especially with the lack of supplies at the camp. Unfortunately, the doctor wasn't able to hold out a lot of immediate hope for Kinch's voice or his impaired vision, or his reduced ability to concentrate for any length of time.

"Perhaps in time, yes, but not for the next few months at least, I'm afraid." The soldiers had not been overly gentle, and that hard blow to the sergeant's throat, the rifle butt to his head, hadn't been particularly beneficial.

Now the question was, what next? The vision problem probably wouldn't have affected Kinch's ability to work the radio and transmitter, not as expert as he was. But the voice? That was something different. Even attempting to speak above the faintest whisper proved excrutiating, and Wilson was of the opinion that Kinch couldn't stand full shifts at the radio anyway - that blow to the head had affected his ability to concentrate for more than a couple of hours at a time.

Well, they had Baker, who'd arrived a few months ago, and who was proving to be an able hand at Kinch's duties, though he'd only been used as backup til now. Hogan quickly arranged for Baker to be transferred into Barracks 2, taking the bunk Kinch had formerly claimed.

And, never mind all that, there was the unable-to-overlook fact that Klink, Burkhalter and just about everyone else outside the Command Team and Hogan thought Kinch was dead; well, that complicated things nicely.

"We can't just have you continuing on as if nothing happened," Hogan explained, with a mixture of kindness, understanding and an underlying impatience in his voice.

For some reason, Hogan had the feeling that Kinch, off and gone back to London, would better suit his purposes, though he wasn't quite sure WHY he felt that way. After all, Kinch had been his able and reliable second-in-command for some time now. Still, the idea nagged at him, enough he suggested Kinch make his way out with the next group of escapees; suggested Kinch make his way back to London, perhaps back home after that.

The team reluctantly agreed Kinch would be better off back home, though they couldn't imagine being without his steady competence, his ability to talk them down from the ledge when they ventured too close to the edge. Not to mention his ability to talk Hogan out of at least some of his more difficult pathways. Not always, mind you, but enough they knew the risk level would go up greatly after Kinch left.

As for Kinch? He was torn. To go home? At least, back to London? How could he fight that? He'd have to be crazy to fight that, right??

Well, it seemed he could fight it, at least part of him was giving it a good effort. And that made no sense! He'd gotten used to the tunnels, they all had, out of sheer necessity, but that was partly because they weren't DOWN there all the time. The thought of being stuck down there all the time gave him cold chills. The thought of being down there, without a break, for perhaps months, maybe years? He didn't think he could stand that.

He kept most of it inside, the debate, but finally turned to someone outside the Command Team, the only other man in camp who knew he was still alive - Scotty Wilson, their medic.

"It feels right, then next minute, it feels wrong," Kinch told the ever-tired looking man in more than a little frustration. "I'm of even less benefit to the team than I was before; it would be a disaster if Klink or anyone else even gets a notion I'm still alive, I know that! Yet, it feels like I'd be putting them at risk by leaving!" He ran his hand over his head in sheer annoyance at the seeming dichotomy.

He looked up from where he'd slumped into that chair in the tunnel, slightly bewildered at having received no response at all from their medic. Their eyes met, and slowly Kinch sat upright. There was something showing in Scotty Wilson's face, something Kinch knew was going to change the whole dynamic of the situation.

Scotty, in the meantime, was struggling with what to tell Kinch, how much he thought he could safely reveal. Finally he sighed, "Kinch, for YOU, yes, I think you would be much better off taking the exit route, heading back home. You would get much better medical care, would be much safer."

"But?" Kinch asked, somehow knowing there was a 'but' in there somewhere.

"YOU would be better off. But the guys? I can't explain, I wish I could, but I can't. The guys, they'd not be better off. The guys, I think they could end up dead without you here."

Well, that was a shocker, certainly not something Kinch had been expecting to hear.

"But I'm even more limited in what I can do to help," he offered hesitantly, trying to understand, since there was obviously more Scotty wasn't saying.

"You're limited in what you can do, yes. But, there are things YOU can do that probably no one else CAN do. I'm not saying having you here will keep the guys alive. Hell, we might all end up dead, I know that as well as you do. Just . . ." and now it was the medic running his hand through his hair in sheer frustration. Kinch was in the position of knowing, remembering too little; Scotty was in the position of knowing, remembering too much and not being able to share what he remembered, what he knew. 

"Scotty?" Kinch encouraged him, knowing he was missing something, something vastly important.

"Kinch, I can't say any more; I'm sorry, I wish I could. But Michael warned me . . ." and the weary medic froze, realizing with that little bit, perhaps he'd said too much. The others didn't remember the visit by the O'Donnell brothers, what they'd put into place to give as much protection as they could from the increasingly dangerous and erratic senior prisoner of war, Colonel Hogan. The brothers had stressed that it needed to stay that way, all memories except for the medic's being disrupted, at least for the time being.

Kinch stared, for a very long time, well past the time when silence became uncomfortable on both their parts. Then he nodded, "I . . . Well, I can't say I understand; apparently I'm not supposed to. But that's enough. You'll back me up with the Colonel? Convince him I can stay?"

"Yes, of course," Scotty told him.

{"I told him the truth; he might end up dead if he stays. Hell, they might all, WE might all end up dead. But if he leaves now? I can see a few empty bunks in Barracks 2, a few extra graves in the cemetery before it's all over, Newkirk for sure, probably Carter and LeBeau right along side him."}

 

Many weeks later -

"Sergeant Kichloe? Sergeant Kinchloe, pleeeease, you cannot be here! You are not supposed to be here! You are dead, you KNOW you are dead! It is not safe for you to be here! Please, go and be somewhere not here? PLEEEEEASE????"

Kinch slowly let out the breath he was holding since he'd rounded the corner and come face to face with the guard. "Yeah, Schultz, I'll do that." He turned to slip away, turned back, "hey, Schultz?"

When the big almost panicked man turned to him with pleading in his eyes, "yes, Sergeant Kinchloe?", Kinch gave him an understanding nod, a warm smile.

"Thanks, Schultz."

After the black man had disappeared, the old guard sat down heavily on a bench, took his helmet off and wiped the sweat from his head with his handkerchief. It being a typical early March night, the sweat combined with the cold night air would have brought a shudder to his body, except he was already shivering like with an ague.

"Hey, Schultzie, you okay?" came from Andrew Carter who'd just sped around the corner, concern and wary anticipation evident in his face, the team having seen the interaction. They'd tried to run interference so Kinch could catch just five minutes of fresh air, even if there wasn't sunshine, it being close to midnight, but had been just a few steps too far away. The guard was so upset he didn't even seem to notice all the activity after dark, after lights out. Or, being Schultz, at least he pretended not to notice.

"Yah, Carter, I am fine."

Newkirk had followed along, and as usual couldn't resist pushing the envelope just a little; he'd never been able to break himself of that habit, most likely never would.

"Ei, Schultzie, look like you've seen a ghost, you do. You been listening to those scary stories Langenscheidt keeps telling?"

The Englishman totally ignored the muttered curses aimed at him from the small Frenchman beside him, not to mention the glare from both LeBeau and Carter.

Schultz gave him a pretty good glare of his own, "no, Newkirk, I have NOT been listening to Langenscheidt's stories! I do not like ghost stories, I do not want to hear ghost stories," and the glare now encompassed all three of the prisoners, "and I do not want to TELL ghost stories. Do I make myself clear? There are to be no ghosts, no ghost stories. Ghosts are dead people; there should be no dead people walking around, talking to me! It is verbotten!! He must be a good boy, you must all be good boys, no more monkey business!!"

Now his tone turned to pleading, "please, be good boys. No ghosts, no ghosts stories. I beg you!" and he heaved himself to his feet, and walked away, resolutely refraining from turning around and looking behind him. The men looked at each other, then at that retreating back.

"Ei, you two better get after 'im right quick, before someone notices 'e forgot 'is 'elmet and 'is rifle again," Newkirk sighed, and Carter and LeBeau grabbed the items in mention and hastened after to re-don the old soldier with the instruments of his (reluctant) profession.

Inside, down in the tunnel, Kinch sat on a bench next to Baker, trying to get his heart beating in somewhat more of a normal rhythm. They both waited, apprehensive, til Newkirk slid down the ladder and joined them.

Baker looked at the Englishman, waited, then "well? Do you think he'll play along?"

"Play along? With w'at?" Newkirk shrugged, looking puzzled. Then he let one of the exceedingly rare smiles they saw from him anymore cross his face.

"Oh, 'e won't say anything. But, bloody 'ell, Kinch, you can't do that again. Thought poor ole Schultz was gonna 'ave a 'eart attack, first from just seeing you, then from trying to convince 'imself 'e 'adn't. Poor ole guy can't stand much more. Like 'e said, you need to be a good boy," that grin becoming totally wicked, having been told early in their acquaintance that 'boy' was something the black man had heard more than enough of.

Baker looked a little offended at the term now, then became even more confused as Kinch snorted and laughed. Kinch looked at Baker and grinned, "it's okay, Baker. For Schultz, being called a 'boy' or in this case, a 'good boy' means you're one of his, the ones he seems to think of as his kids. I don't think I've ever been called that without being offended, except by my dad, but in Schultz's case, it's totally different."

And so it went, Baker manning the radio and transmitter for three-quarter shifts, Kinch taking a quarter shift, filling the rest of his time with translations, codes and occasionally giving Newkirk and Carter a hand in their own sphere of operations. His voice gradually became stronger, though always maintained an odd hoarseness; he added a new character to his telephone impersonations, a General Klauckmann, the name being pronounced with an odd, almost choking sound; his vision improved to where it was close to normal by the time the camp was liberated.

And Scotty Wilson had been right. On more than one occasion, Kinch's continued presence proved vital to the survival of the team. Sometimes it was a matter of, once again, talking one of the guys off the ledge they'd climbed out on. His role as General Klauckmann helped cause a goodly share of confusion in the German ranks, enabling the guys to pull off jobs they might not have been able to otherwise. And, sometimes, it was his knowing just when to step in, to give Hogan that gentle nudge in another direction, protecting his team mates in an entirely different manner.

And the story went around, very quietly, only amongst the guards, never shared with any outsiders. "Stalag 13 is haunted, you know, by a ghost. A dark ghost, who sometimes walks the compound and elsewhere, late at night. But we are lucky; he is a kind ghost. It was he who summoned help when Corporal Drehmann had his seizure, you know. Just nod or speak quietly if you meet him; he will do you no harm. But it would not do for the Kommandant to know, or anyone else. Remember, he is OUR secret!"

And when the camp was liberated, when the ex-Kommandant stood, under guard, watching the ex-prisoners being loaded onto the trucks taking them back home, he was jolted even out of his resigned apathy by the sight of one Sergeant James Kinchloe joining the rest of Barracks 2. 

"Hogan??!" The name came out at only a whisper, but since the officer had been one of the first to be driven away, he got no explanation from the manipulator-in-chief of Stalag 13.

A mostly silent Sergeant Schultz stood alongside, nodding his goodbye's one by one, tears in his eyes as 'his boys' finally took their first steps toward going home. 

"Schultz? I don't understand? That was Sergeant Kinchloe! But he is dead!" Klink whimpered.

"That should be no surprise, Kommandant. Even the dead must long to return home," Schultz said quietly. {Safe journey, Sergeant. Safe journey, my boys. And remember, no monkey business!"}


End file.
